Fool Me Again
by JohnQKole
Summary: One-shot that starts at the party at the conclusion of Season Two's Vampire Weekend. Beckett isn't done getting her revenge. Just some light, smutty fun.


**A/N—I will preface this oneshot with a few notes. First, this one is smutty. I've noted from comments I've read that some hate the sexy fics, some like them, so I'll warn in advance in case you're a member of the first group. Second, this fic is only meant to be light and fun, so no depth to be found here. Yea...it's sometimes fun to be shallow.**

**Finally, it's a Caskett fic...I promise.**

**Anyway, I hope some of you enjoy this one; I enjoyed writing it. If not, I'm back to my long fic again anyway. I'm still working on that one, and should have a chap up for that one in a few days.**

**This starts at the party at the conclusion of Season Two's **_**Vampire Weekend**_**.**

* * *

**Fool Me Again**

Rick Castle invited all these people to a party, mostly hoping one particular person would show, but with so many people at the party, he has lost track of that one person.

In fact, ever since Beckett showed up with that disappointing costume to get her revenge, he has barely seen her.

The crowd thins slightly as the hour climbs past midnight. Castle sees Ryan standing next to his partner, the two gawking at something. Ryan already said his goodbyes earlier, so Rick wonders what could have stopped his exit and convinced him to stick around.

Curiosity sends Castle over to see what has captured the boys' attention.

He steps up behind them, peering in the limited space between their heads, and searches for whatever item of interest has lured them. They are watching Beckett and Lanie, who are in a corner of the apartment, sitting in the same cozy chair. It is almost like the two women are at their own little party, seemingly oblivious to those around them, deep in conversation.

At some point, Kate removed the pop-out part of her costume, sitting in only the simple black dress she wore beneath (after all, she had to look leggy beneath the coat to sell the trick). Even if her intention wasn't to look sexy, she does. Part of Lanie's costume is on Kate, namely her headband, so Kate is a little dressed up, whether she wants to be or not.

On cursory inspection, this event of interest does not appear particularly noteworthy, until Rick sees the way the two women speak to each other. They are close, as close as he and Kate had been not all that long ago when they looked over a comic book at the precinct until so unnecessarily interrupted.

Lanie casually argues with Kate, the former finally winning, it seems, taking off her studded collar and putting it on her friend's neck. Lanie looks satisfied with the improvement, although Kate overtly disapproves.

As conversation continues, Lanie and Kate whisper, packed in that one chair, giggling softly at whatever they're discussing. He would like to be part of that, sitting in that close circle, sharing whatever is being shared. Rick considers the fact that he has so rarely seen the two women together socially.

"Women are just different than us," Ryan continues an argument with Esposito that must have begun before Castle joined them.

"Wow," Castle sarcastically states as he looks at Espo, "it's good he's here to explain this to us."

"I mean they talk like that...all close and kinda secretive. It doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"What do you think, Bro?" Espo asks.

"About?" Rick questions.

"Lanie and Beckett. You think sometimes on Saturday nights when they've got nothing better to do, maybe they get a little crazy together?"

"Depends. We talking _too much to drink_ crazy or we talking about—"

"_Crazy_ like naked girl-on-girl stuff," Espo indelicately sums up.

"No way," Rick immediately snaps, but then he sees Lanie's finger brush a hair from Kate's face, and he is almost positive Kate looks at Lanie's lips when she speaks, and suddenly it is less important whether or not it is _actually_ true as it is tantalizing to consider and _believe _to be true. They've both been drinking, but neither appear to be at 'drunk and disorderly' levels of intoxication.

Castle shakes his head, deciding to answer, "Sorry, boys, I don't see it. Beckett wouldn't do it. She's too by-the-book to be an experimenter. Besides, she may actually have fun, and we all know how she feels about that."

Ryan smirks, "To hear her father tell it, she was quite the wild one. She's already been out sowing oats and experimenting. So I don't know...there may be a precedent here from before any of us knew her."

"That is true," Espo nods.

"So maybe when she's not working, there's still a hint of that free-thinking wild woman that comes out to play," Ryan mentions.

"You guys have his number?" Rick asks.

"Beckett gets crazy. It's in her eyes. I could see it happening. Not all of the time, but sometimes, for sure," Espo votes like he's had the definitive say on the matter.

"Well...even if it were true," Castle states, "you...would never _'see it happening_.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Guys, come on...no offense, but I think we all know I'm the only one of the three of us who would ever receive an invite either as an observer or participant."

Ryan and Espo laugh at Castle. Boisterously.

"It would be me," Ryan answers through near-tears of laughter. Attempting a more sincere tone, he adds, "I'm sensitive. Respectful. Attentive."

Castle scoffs, "Honey milk isn't an aphrodisiac. It's a sedative." He snores loudly in demonstration. "No, my friend, you wouldn't have a chance. Besides, you have a girlfriend, which means you are out of contention entirely."

Esposito fist bumps Castle, but says, "But it doesn't really matter what either of you chuckleheads thinks. I'm the only choice, without a doubt."

Rick, _filled_ with doubt, asks, "How in the hell do you figure that?"

Espo declares, chest puffed, "I'm the best looking, in the best shape. I have that whole Latin Lover thing going for me. Ladies like that."

Ryan and Castle now loudly guffaw, the latter finally announcing, "They are both clearly most attracted to me."

"Is that why Beckett made an ass out of you when she showed up with that costume?" Ryan challenges.

"You jumped like a scared little wuss," Espo adds. "No woman is attracted to that."

Ryan smirks. "You were drooling over her and whatever you thought she had under that jacket—"

"Then kaboom," Espo loudly reminds.

"Got you," Ryan crosses his arms. "The only thing Beckett wants to do with you...is humiliate you."

"Lanie's got way better taste than the likes of you," Esposito carries on. "She likes men like me, not pretty boys."

As they argue, Castle stares at the women in question, refusing to even counter the argument or take time to be offended any longer. The boys continue the debate, and miss the interactions that first captured their attention.

Rick points toward the women to alert Esposito and Ryan that they're missing out. As the boys follow the gesture, they see the two women, so close, whispering something alternatingly into each other's ears. Lanie's fingers occasionally brush Kate's shoulder, Kate taps Lanie's thigh with the back of her knuckle to accentuate her words, and things look very intimate in that little corner.

"Maybe…" Castle notes, uncertain if it is his libido, or the drink he's been enjoying all evening, or maybe his very talented and active imagination that is making him see things.

Lanie asks a question, Kate bobs her head with only a second's consideration. Like they're conspiring, they make a plan. Kate nonchalantly points across the loft in the general direction of Castle's office.

Lanie stands first, facing Kate, her back to the boys. She looks to the right and left, like checking for onlookers, not seeing the trio of men wrapped up in the idea of them because they are at her back.

Then Lanie extends her hand, and Kate takes it, and the two saunter toward the darkened office, arm-in-arm. _How much have they had to drink?_

Castle and Espo hurry after, Ryan wondering, "Maybe we shouldn't be—," but the other two quickly step around him to look inside.

The women are standing near the windows, backlit from the glow outside, lights off in the room, silhouettes visible as they stand in a near embrace, still whispering secrets.

Castle's hand moves to Espo's shoulder and grabs on as he tries to see beyond, and Espo scowls and gripes, "Bro...don't touch me right now. It's weird enough we're seeing this together."

"It's _my_ office," Castle counters, removing his hand. "If anyone has a right to be here, it's me."

But the argument screeches to a halt as Beckett speaks loudly enough for them to hear if they listen carefully. "You sure?"

And Lanie purrs, wrapped in that tight, slick costume with a sensual voice to boot, "God, yes."

Hands on each other's hips, each woman moves toward the other. The centimeters between them become millimeters, and then tenths of millimeters. They are almost there, lips bound to make contact at any given second.

The guys, at that point, are leaning so precariously that a stiff wind could probably blow them over.

And just as things seem most likely to escalate, the sounds of giggling fill the room. Correction, it is not giggling; it is _laughter_.

"I am _sure…_ that these three are a bunch of adolescent idiots," Lanie explains.

Kate and Lanie stand side-by-side, arms over each other's shoulders, as they erupt in bursts of victorious amusement. Lanie extends a middle finger toward the onlooking trio, and Kate disciplines, "You should all be _ashamed_ of yourselves, objectifying us, and our friendship like that."

Castle turns on the light and defends, "I don't know what you're talking about. I was coming in here to get my...pen."

"Sure you were," Lanie argues.

"So easy," Kate declares, hands proudly perched on her hips, "How many times do you need me to take you to school, Castle? Now we're not just even...I'm ahead."

"Girl, I have somewhere I need to be," Lanie says, "but it was fun showing these boys a thing or two."

"Please, feel free to show us a thing or two more," Castle offers.

"Yes ma'am," Espo adds, "I'd be pleased to be taught anything the pair of you are teaching."

Lanie slaps Esposito hard enough to color his cheek as she walks by, which simply makes him grin. He and Ryan offer their goodbyes and leave with her.

The party is thinning out, but still forging on for those who remain.

For a moment or two after their friends leave, Kate stays in his office while Castle takes off his wig and the cap beneath and runs his fingers through his hair to try to put it in place. He's going to blame the wig for the fact that he's sweating a little, should anyone inquire.

She studies him, perhaps mulling over something interesting to say. Like usual, her response is a safe one, "Well, Castle, quite a party. It was fun." And at that, she walks away.

She grabs her coat, says goodbye to Martha, scanning the room and finding no one else she knows since her friends have left and the youngest Castle long since retired. So she continues out to the hall and presses the button for the elevator. Beckett doesn't hear anyone come up behind her until Castle says, "So...for the record. You and Lanie?"

"What about me and Lanie?" Kate asks, eyes fully rolling.

"Maybe some lonely, wild night...the two of you ever...mess around?"

"All the time," she answers with enough sarcasm to carry over for the next fifteen comments, if she wishes it to last that long.

"See," he replies with some frustration, "I can't tell if you're just saying that because it _really_ never happened, or if you're telling the truth in a sarcastic voice in order to throw me off the trail without lying. Come on...you can tell me."

The elevator dings and she steps in, replying, "I guess you'll never know. But if it ever did, or does...we sure as hell wouldn't have an audience drooling in the corner, talking loudly enough that their _secret conversation_ could mostly be heard. We wouldn't perform for your amusement, or anyone else's. We would do it for the fun of it. Just the two of us. And the earth would move. Guaranteed." She presses the button and the doors begin to shut, and she says cheerily, "Night, Castle."

Right before the doors close, he sidesteps and slips through the gap. "Now I _know,_ without a doubt, that you're just messing with me."

"Do you?" she crosses her arms and stares ahead.

"Yea. Definitely."

"Guess you know then. Mystery solved."

"But...allow me to play devil's advocate."

"Pretty much your default role."

"Who, should such a ground-shaking interaction ever take place, would be the more active or assertive party?"

"Women are more cooperative, don't you think? Able to work together to achieve the best possible _outcome._"

"Such a general answer leads me to believe it hasn't happened."

"Okay," she too easily capitulates, "then I guess mystery solved, again, and nothing ever happened. Satisfied?"

She walks out to the curb in front of his building, and Castle hails a cab on her behalf. She did not expect him to hop in with her, but she doesn't comment on or try to halt his continued shadowing.

"Normally, I'd think you'd be more assertive. You're a pretty alpha personality. But Lanie...she's not exactly timid either," he notes.

"I'm having trouble keeping up," Beckett states cockily, "are we back to the _we-did_ or _we-didn't_ conclusion?"

"Still undetermined. So for the moment, we'll speak theoretically."

"Of course we will."

"So you're a take-charge kind of woman, but sometimes even take-charge women enjoy a different dynamic in sexual situations and—"

"Does it have to be one way or the other?" Kate asks. "Shouldn't really great sex involve a combination? At least for me, if it happens between the same two people more than once."

"Go on."

"Well, sometimes it's good to shake things up, be the pursuer or the pursued, the giver or the receiver, the one calling the shots or the one enjoying the shots being called. Some nights, it's not even about that. When people are really good together, it's all about collaboration. Variety keeps things interesting."

He swallows roughly, the answer fueling imagination. Pausing to think, he considers this for a moment, and Kate, fine with a break from being interrogated, doesn't interrupt his thoughts. During the pause, she removes the headband portion of Lanie's costume and looks for a place to stash it. He has a pocket large enough, so he puts it away for safekeeping.

When they arrive at her place, she pays and walks toward her building without saying good night, so he follows_. It would be rude to exit mid-conversation anyway_.

"The whole collaboration thing…" he continues, "was that statement in response specifically to the Lanie situation or sex in general?"

"In general," she replies without embellishment.

She passes the elevator and takes the stairs, so he continues in tow.

"I will never understand the fascination men have with two women together," she says as she ascends.

"Biology. Two women, two opportunities to ensure a man's genetic survival even beyond his own lifetime."

"I've heard that argument. But if it's just a matter of _watching_, there's no possibility for passing along DNA at all. Plus, if that were the case, if that drive is still so imperative, shouldn't you have a pile of kids by now with your multiple wives?"

"Well, I think it's more of a leftover impulse from earlier days when that was important. Remnant of a previous era."

"It's funny," she observes as she unlocks her door, "the biology excuse."

"Why is that funny?"

"It's used when it's convenient, well, parts of it anyway," she adds, leaning against her door jamb as he pauses in the hall. "I mean...early man didn't have use for coordinated pocket squares, they were content with fur loincloths. They didn't need fine dining with microscopic portion sizes, they wanted to eat enough of whatever wasn't poisonous so they could survive. You seem to enjoy your modern conveniences and amenities that are about much more than survival. You treasure the finer things. The world has changed, people have evolved beyond meeting their basic needs."

Still in the hall beyond her door, he confesses, "Maybe it's more about the fact that men like women, and they like sex. Watching two women, two beautiful, attractive women in particular, is hot. There's no other man, no threat...just twice the parts men like already."

"See, now that answer, I get. Seems more honest."

Their silent stare challenges the inaction each embraces. Then Beckett tosses another thought out to him as she drops her keys on the sideboard next to the door. "I get it all...except the 'no threat' part," before she walks into her apartment, leaving the door open. Although she hasn't specifically offered, the invitation is implied and conversation is still continuing, so he enters, locking the door behind him.

She acts like his presence is nothing out of the ordinary. Kate heads directly for her kitchen, grabbing two tall glasses and scooping ice into each one. She pulls a heavy pitcher from the fridge, filling one glass before she offers, "Iced tea? Or you want something stronger?"

"Tea's good."

She hands a full glass to him before she leans against the counter and takes a long drink to rehydrate. Beckett doesn't return to the previous thought, so he is forced to pursue an answer. "So...what was that about the 'no-threat' thing?"

Beckett postulates, "What if the woman in this scenario is a better partner? What if that woman knows what she wants, what she needs, what she likes? Wouldn't that be threatening?"

"An interesting theory. Or the counter theory about opposites and attraction, different pieces completing one whole." He moves over to lean against the counter next to her, both facing out into the apartment, large frosted glass windows at their backs.

"Also an interesting, and popular, theory. But what if it isn't necessarily about parts at all...what if it's about the person you're with. I'm sure you know, as most people who've had more than one partner in their lives, that some people are better lovers than others. Some are more intuitive, responsive, talented. Maybe just more well-matched. Some put in more effort. Maybe the packaging doesn't matter nearly as much as you think."

"Is that what _you_ think? There are certain things a man can bring to the party that a woman cannot."

"The reverse is also true. Besides, that's part of what makes great sex, too...finding ways to meet a partner's needs. You work with what you've got." Beckett lifts her shoulders in a shrug.

Then her eyes close, like she is revisiting a memory, a pleased smile across her face as she whispers, "All I know...is that when she goes down on me…"

Castle hurtles through a series of responses that all decide they must be activated at once: confusion, intrigue, jealousy, fascination, excitement.

Just as he thinks he has some answers, she opens one eye and turns to him with the most playful of stares before she elbows him.

"You're joking?" he exhales out sharply.

"Yes! I'm joking, Castle. I think that makes three points for me tonight."

"Probably," he says, sounding kind of mopey.

"I don't have sex with her," she admits, clearing up the question.

He begins to look around the kitchen, studying her apartment. Seeing the way he's looking around, she offers, "You hungry?"

"I'm good," he replies, eyes venturing out of the kitchen to attempt to see beyond the space they occupy.

"Can you answer a question honestly and directly?" she wonders with enough sincerity and severity to earn his focus.

"Depends on the question," he truthfully responds.

"Is that really something you'd want? You'd want to watch me and Lanie together?"

"I wouldn't say no."

"But...I mean, if you had a chance to do that...or…" she puts down her glass and backtracks from the question. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." Changing the subject, she places her hand back on the refrigerator door and asks, "Want some more tea?"

"Sure. It's really good. Minty," he replies, not sure what else to say.

He holds his glass out, watching her while she refills it.

Volunteering information he could have avoided giving, he says, "The _idea_ is hot—"

"I'll grab you some more ice," she deflects.

"The idea of you and another woman. The thought, the fantasy...very hot," he returns, deciding he will have his say regardless of her redirection. "But the reality? That's one of those tricky situations."

"Oh?" she asks, stepping back until he grabs her wrist. He places his own glass on the counter, then takes the pitcher from her hand and puts that down as well. She swallows, looking nervous suddenly. Admittedly the air is full of potential lines that could be crossed, and the dangers that lurk on the other sides of those lines. "How so?" she continues even though she seems hesitant to ask.

"Because in reality, I'd be jealous. I've seen you kiss other people before. I'm not all that fond of it."

"Well, that was a man. A threat, according to your own assessment of such instances," she gives him an easy pass.

"I'd still be jealous, seeing you with someone else," he says so seriously that she looks instantly off balance. "Watching someone else do things I wouldn't mind doing while I just sit there…I don't know if that would work for me."

She grins widely, proudly, as she gains her emotional footing, believing she has uncovered the truth, "I know what you're doing. You're playing me. Getting me back. It won't work, Castle."

"I'm not. I'm honestly answering your question, as requested." He remains standing well within her personal space, as close as she and Lanie had been during their little gag. "I dare you to do the same. Think you can handle it?"

"Of course I can," she argues belligerently. "The question is...do I want to?"

"All I want...is for you to admit that the other day at the precinct, you lied."

"I lied? I did _not_ lie. About what?" she scoffs.

"When we were looking at the pages of that comic book, we had a moment. And the boys came in and asked if they were interrupting something. You lied and said they weren't. And they very clearly were. All I want is for you to admit the truth...because they definitely interrupted something."

"Alright. They were interrupting. Our _investigation."_

His face crumples in frustration. "Fine," he replies. "You started this game and now I'm trying to play it, and you're chickening out."

"_You_ started this game," she sternly answers, getting up in his face. "Earlier today. You tricked me, made me think maybe you were opening up to me a little."

"I'm an open book."

"No. Not about stuff that's real," she argues, looking more hurt than what he'd suspected. "I thought...after everything you learned about me, that you were trying to open up, to share something unpublished in the bio. I was wrong, and it bugged me. So yea, I wanted to get you back."

"I was messing with you—"

"It doesn't matter," she attempts to shut down this whole topic. "It's late."

"Fine," he dejectedly answers back. "I'll go. But I was serious about feeling jealous. I was jealous when you were hanging around with that substandard jackass with an FBI badge. That kind of secret is one I don't exactly advertise, don't even like admitting to myself. I'm admitting that to you. Maybe we just have different types of secrets to confess."

"Maybe so," she whispers, but he is fully aware of the honesty of her previous declaration, that his earlier prank bothered her more than he'd expected.

"So, before I leave, I challenge you to admit it here, between the two of us with no witnesses...you could deny this whole conversation ever took place if you wanted to...I just want you to say it to me."

"Say what?"

"That no matter how you feel right now, or normally, or tomorrow...that for a few seconds in the precinct, you and I shared a moment that was interrupted. It wasn't the first moment we've shared, and it probably won't be the last, but that doesn't matter for now. I just want you to admit that for those few seconds, there was something there. Something you felt, too."

"I'm tired, Castle," she groans.

"You can't do it. Even here. And it's not because you're afraid to admit it to _me_...I already know it."

Beckett stares silently, and Castle is about to accept it (for now), and then she says something hurried and unprepared, "They interrupted something. I don't know exactly what, but..._something_."

"Thank you," he answers, sounding baffled. He never thought she'd admit it. "And you know—"

He pauses, feeling something tickling his lip and realizing it is his fake Poe-mustache drooping on one side. He yanks it off, finding it adhering a bit too well on the one side that didn't begin to fall. "Ow," he gripes as he rubs the spot where the glue on the fake mustache ripped out some of the hairs that really belong on his face.

"So tough, Castle," she teases.

"Mother helped with this. Some kind of magic actress face glue."

"Your excuse to sound tougher is to claim you used your mommy's magic actress face glue?"

"Ha-ha-ha," he dryly replies.

As he uses his thumb to attempt to clear away the remnants of adhesive, Kate orders, "Stop. You're irritating it. Stay here. I have something that'll help."

She returns, pressing a cotton ball against an upturned bottle. Beckett walks up to him in the same certain way she approaches so many other things in life.

"I think it ripped out some of my hair," he complains, pausing when she comes close enough that he can almost feel her against his chest.

Her lips tighten as she studies him, dabbing the solution against the spot that still has leftover adhesive. He's transfixed as he watches her perform this task. She shakes her head at his complaint.

"Hey, do you have any idea how that feels, having hair ripped out like that?" he defends.

She stares in a way that accuses him of stupidity. "It's called waxing. So yea."

"Good point," he concedes.

She is silent for a moment, rotating between dabbing with the solution and using her other thumb to feel for any remaining stickiness. He notes, of course, that she didn't just turn on the brighter kitchen lights, electing to use touch to determine completeness of the task.

When she's finished, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under water in the sink. Instead of helping him this time, she hands it over to him to use. When he's done wiping off his face, he says, "Got it?"

She leans in, checking, inspecting, and he feels the crackling heat of a moment, something with electricity and gravity. And privacy, for once.

"Feel better now?" she asks, and if she's trying to taunt, she's failing.

"Still sore. You could kiss it better," he replies with a boyish grin, knowing well that this attempt will fail, but trying it anyway.

She huffs and looks away, but after a handful of heartbeats, she looks back at him, and that previous moment returns without diffusion.

"Ryan and Esposito aren't around to interrupt this time," he continues.

It was meant to be funny, although it feels like a dare.

Her hands take his face, keeping him exactly where she wants him, and then she brings him toward her. Initially he believes it's a kiss that doesn't land as intended, but he realizes she chose this, decided to kiss him just above his lip where the fake mustache stuck.

"There. Better?" she asks. And he knows she wants to look unaffected, but the flush across her cheeks betrays her.

"Not quite," he replies, seizing a moment before he loses his nerve.

His lips lower to hers, not missing the mark at all. He kisses both lips, gently surrounding each with the tenderest of touches. "W—what are you doing?" she asks, her eyes a little wider as she pushes his chest enough to gain a tiny bit of space.

"Nothing," he replies.

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

"I was hoping you'd say that," he counters.

"What do you want, Castle?" she challenges.

"Me?"

"Like you said...no one else here to interrupt. So what do you want?"

"What I want…" he searches for the answer he needs, maybe not the entire truth, but something close enough. Castle has a flash of his most wanting moment that night, and his answer becomes obvious to him. "Remember how you closed your eyes, started talking about what it feels like when you're with Lanie?"

"It was a joke," she reminds.

"I know. I want...for you to be able to close your eyes, to think back, to fondly recall what it feels like to be with me. And when you do, I want you to look that captivated, that turned on, that fulfilled...but without the joking part."

A progression of thoughts crosses her face, from confusion, to shock, and very nearly to the point where he thinks she is going to break away and literally throw him out the door. But then at the very last second, she slightly juts one brow, and it feels oddly like an invitation, or at least curiosity, and she waits.

Her reaction causes him to back away a half-step. And when she doesn't send him packing, he can't help but wonder if this is all part of their game, if she's waiting for him to react so she can remind him he's too easy to fool. But then again, what if this is something else, and he's missing an opportunity that may never come again? What would she do if he dropped to his knees and lifted her dress?

"You're messing with me," he says, no notable volume to his words.

"Or you're the one messing with me," she replies with the same tone.

"So we're stuck? Although since the current score is three to one, you could sacrifice a point and still be ahead."

"I like having the cushion," she seems to decline.

But she leans back against the counter, planting the heels of her hands on the edge, and she looks up at him with eyes he's virtually incapable of resisting. As far as he's concerned, he made the last move, and before he can tell her anything to the effect, she responds. Keeping her hands on the counter, she pushes her body forward to his. She doesn't pause or hesitate at all (that he can tell) continuing with one unbroken motion until her parted lips meet his. Her kiss lasts longer, is a bit deeper, more intimate. Her tongue ventures far enough into his mouth that he can taste the mintiness of her tea. His fingers rest on her sides, delicate and cautious.

When she finally pulls away and returns to the counter behind her, she looks as stunned as he feels, both panting like they'd just run a marathon, or maybe survived a haunted house.

"So…" she challenges, "what's the score now?"

Apparently she chose to take the risk, and now wishes to see the truth of his intentions, if he wants to gain back pride (and a point) or take a gamble.

"Uh," he pauses, shaking his head as he considers answers: wry answers, cutting answers, flirty answers. Truthful answers. "The score is…" he bluntly admits, "I really don't give a fuck what the score is."

She tries to swallow her expression of relief and approval before she says, "Good answer." Her eyes never really settle on him, still clearly feeling some insecurity over what to do next. "So...truce?" she offers.

When she extends a hand, he accepts. Lusty, flooding hormones embolden him, and he takes a short step with long implications, his knee coming between hers, his hands (fingers pointed down), moving down her hips until his fingertips can curl under the bottom edge of the dress.

It's her face, her eyes, that he's fixated on as his palms press the fabric against her thighs to shimmy it up one side at a time in alternating steps. He kisses a spot low on her neck very near her chest while he fights his way out of the heavy 19th century dress jacket, finding it too constricting. _Should have thrown a toga party._

She tugs off the period piece cravat and her coat and throws them on his jacket on the floor. He pops open the costume collar Lanie had put on Kate, and leaves it in the very same pile. He trails the backs of his fingers along her neck, finally allowing them to fall to her arms as he takes a chance greater than those he's taken before.

He lowers slowly to his knees, eyes locked on hers even once he's in position. Pushing the dress back up well over her hips, he sees for the first time the way she looks in the sexy, skimpy panties she wears. _Surely she doesn't go to work wearing things like this, does she?_ And that question prompts another: _Does that mean she had ideas about tonight long before she even got to the party? Did any of those ideas involve a certain ruggedly handsome novelist?_

He considers ways to keep the dress up this far while freeing his hands to pull down her panties and bare her intimately before him. He doesn't expect her help, but receives it when she holds the dress in place and waits. As he sticks one finger under the band on each side of the barrier garment, he knows perfectly well he doesn't give a damn about the games they've been playing. No, he's way too aroused, enticed, and fascinated by what's happening to care about winning or losing. But he does know the vulnerable position this leaves him in if she puts a stop to this, if she has proof that he wants her and is so willing to get on his knees for her.

Lowering the piece of clothing, he takes his time, appreciating every last inch of those long, elegant legs. They're works of art. She lifts one foot at a time, heels still on when she steps out of her underwear and he assists. He knows she's leaving the stilettos on for him, that they're just one more piece of this experience that will be seared into his memory.

His hands mostly surround her legs as they slide back up in parallel. His feet tucked beneath him, he sits slightly elevated, her sex right before his eyes. He's certain Beckett wouldn't allow a prank to go so far, but it's possible she'll change her mind.

His eyes find hers one more time, she's making attempts at stoicism, but her skin is flushed and her breath just a bit ragged. She's turned on, staring down at him, waiting, hoping. If she pushes him away now, this snapshot will haunt him.

When his hands surround her hips, he finally comes forward, resting his forehead against the lowest point on her tummy for a second as he inhales her scent and relishes just how close he is right at this moment.

Castle kisses her softly just above the place where her flesh parts, finally, so subtly, allowing his tongue to follow that parting. He gets only the slightest taste of her at first, and it compels and inspires, and he delves a bit deeper, finding not the beginnings of wetness, but a full state of arousal, dripping and delicious and affirming. One of her legs turns out, offering more of herself to him.

If that turned out thigh and the slick pool of excitement he's discovered aren't enough to convince him she's hot and bothered and ready to do this, she splays a hand through his hair at the top of his head, moving it around toward the back. When her fingers close, she grabs tufts of his hair and holds on.

She's not grasping to remove him; she's holding him right there against her.

He lifts her leg, carefully guiding it over his shoulder, feeling the point of that stiletto against his back. He seeks the source of her wetness, dipping into the entrance to her body and finding more of the taste he desires.

So many signs are present in gleaming neon, but her silence agitates him. She hasn't offered a single sound, not a moan or gasp or 'yes' of affirmation. He looks up the length of her body, seeing her face through the valley between her breasts, still half-clothed, dress bunched around her ribs.

Her eyes are heavy, mouth gaped, and he is very aware of the frequent times he's imagined provoking that same expression. But this isn't a dream as he's falling asleep. He's there, face buried between Beckett's legs, now having experienced a taste, seen the evidence of her desire for him.

This may be all that happens between them tonight. It may be the only thing that happens between them _ever_. But this moment is now his, no matter what follows. It's his to keep, hers to remember, theirs to share. Absolutely nothing will change that.

He pulls back just a little, intent on watching what he does next. But the fierce look in her eyes when he pauses screams a confession of need she wouldn't verbalize.

Her eyes ask if that's it, if he's done, and in response his hand moves up her thigh, only the tip of an index finger softly swirling over her clit a few times before he slides into position and slips his finger into her.

The fight is oddly missing from her stare as she seems thoroughly unreserved and brainless, for once completely without defense or a sharp comment to keep him at bay.

Her grasp on the back of his head tightens again, not pushing him against her exactly, but reminding him of where he should be and what he should continue doing.

He locks his gaze on her as he obeys. He will give her what she wants (what they both want), but he's determined to force some kind of turned on, pleasured cry from her. He _will _hear her before he's done.

As his finger pumps into her, lips surrounding her clit while his tongue glides around in unpredictable paths, he begins to hear her. It's louder, unsteady breathing at first, with the slightest hint of vocalization at the end of each exhale, but as she allows these sounds, more follow. And the more she responds, the more he tries to pleasure her.

She's no longer shy about holding his face against her, keeping him in place like she won't be denied, although he's not going anywhere. He loves the way her hand pushes him against her sex, the way her insides are beginning to tighten around his finger, and god, that ragged breathing and the little moans that are finally escaping from her are hotter than the best dirty talk he's heard.

Her body begins to move, all of it, undulating to the rhythm of this adventure. With his free hand, he pushes up her dress a little higher, and he feels the muscles tightening down her sides and over her tummy. Any reservations in her voice are gone as she practically screams loudly enough that her throat may be sore later.

Her weight-bearing leg buckles, her elbow on the countertop holding her up. There is nothing careful or reserved or cautious about the way she climaxes for him. No, it's wanton, free, and full. She loses control, comes undone for him. Her body is pulsing, reacting, tensing. Wetness coats his fingers and the upper part of his palm. And his mouth.

He has no desire to be finished with this in spite of the fact that his jaw could use a break. No, he would keep lapping and sucking as long as she would allow.

She finally pushes him back, her hand covering her sex because she can't possibly take any more for the moment, desperate for a chance to recover and catch her breath. He continues to hold onto her so she doesn't fall to the floor, placing gentle kisses against the hand that covers her. He slowly withdraws his finger from inside her, listening to her whimper as she feels the movement within.

He stands, bringing the leg that was over his shoulder around his hip. His lips crash into hers as his arms pull her pliant body against him. She moans softly into his mouth, grasping at the front of his shirt. He expects, still, even after that orgasm and the intimate way he just explored her body, that she may push him away. She doesn't. She seems to enjoy the taste of herself on him, kissing deeply and fully in a way they didn't moments before. Even after what they've done, she still seems hungry.

She tightens the leg that's around his hip, and as much as she couldn't take any more direct stimulation, she seems to enjoy the hard pressure of his body against her core. He feels nothing _but_ pressure in himself. He was already turned on, but the feeling of her hips rocking toward him, her sex against his although separated by his pants, leaves him hard and wanting in a slightly starving way.

Of course he won't push her. It's not like they agreed to anything, so when he started, he knew this may be a one-way ticket (at least for now). But the way she continues to kiss him, move against him, turn him on even more than he already was, is making the one-way option a bit uncomfortable.

She pulls away (at least her mouth...he can still feel the heat of her pussy against him, still separated by those thick costume pants). Whatever potential there is to somehow become harder is met and exceeded as he sees the look on her face. Still, even post-orgasm, there is no hesitation to be found. She still hasn't sent him out the door.

He misses the first part of what she says, catching only "—get outta the kitchen." Whatever the first word or words were could be the difference between her inviting him to another room and demanding that he leave.

Convinced she's kicking him out, he collects the cast off pieces of costume. And he really, really doesn't want to go. He doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want his time with her to close, so he's trying to think of something he can say that might change her mind.

She chuckles. "I don't think you'll need those. Costumes aren't required for this party."

"What?"

"Thought we were going to my bedroom….unless you don't want to."

He throws the gathered clothing back on the ground and answers, "I want to," with an immediate surge of undisguised enthusiasm.

"Come on."

Beckett takes a few steps, the dress that's still on her falling down over her hips and hanging as designed. He wishes he'd had the foresight to remove it, since he'd like to see her completely naked. She signals with her head which way to walk, and he follows, but she takes his hand anyway. It's a welcoming and somewhat sweet gesture he'll probably appreciate more after he resolves the _issue _of his need for her.

Once they're in her room, she kicks her heels off by the door. He opens some of the buttons on his shirt, finally electing to release only enough of them to pull it over his head, forgetting the fact that the cuffs at the ends of his sleeves are still closed.

The shirt gets stuck over his hands. This is an impediment he doesn't have time for, and he looks around for scissors or something to cut the cloth away. Since he can't find any such thing, he tugs at the shirt, trying to remove it in any way he can without looking frantic. "You okay?" she asks, her eyes mischievous and flirty, clearly tickled by his hurriedness and excitement.

"Yea," he attempts the utmost cool. And, no, she probably doesn't buy the act.

"Can I give you a hand with that?" she asks, lifting one of his wrists and flipping the cuff so she can open it.

She's standing close to him, not that she hasn't been close before, but she's never been close like this, when he knows her panties are on the floor in another room, and she's wet and inviting beneath that dress while helping him take his clothes off. He knows damn well she would not be pleased if he asked to get some pictures, but he'd like to take one or two so he can assure himself tomorrow that this actually happened.

So he stares at her face so near his, her attention focused on his cuffs. When she begins to free the second one, she seems to realize he's staring, so she asks, "What?"

"Nothing," he answers too quickly. Then he pauses for a moment and says, "Just wondering what happens next."

"Oh," she answers, her tone flat because she's preoccupied. But she bites her lip, finessing the clasp on the one cuff that is stuck, and when she gets it, she states with satisfaction. "Got it."

She pulls the shirt off the rest of the way, letting it fall between them before it's forgotten.

Now that the job is done, she returns to his last statement. "Quit wondering and find out," she offers, her chin tilted for him, awaiting his next move.

This time he holds her face between his hands, offering a long, slow kiss that makes him wonder why he isn't doing this every single day.

Beckett responds to every second of that kiss, answering in a way that's better than words. Her desire to continue supersedes his own, and she nips at his lip when she backs away enough to open his pants, reaching into his boxers and wrapping her long fingers around his cock. Her strokes aren't hesitant, and his response is immediate as his eyes go shut and he pants harshly as something finally begins to address his ache.

She takes him to her bed, pushing him down flat while she takes his shoes and helps him get rid of the pants and boxers. She straddles his hips and gestures with a come-hither-finger for him to sit up so she can kiss him one more time before she reaches for the nightstand drawer.

He's a little stunned by the reality of what is happening, even through his mind's singular focus on being with her. His hands brace on the bed while she handles the matter of protection. His hips rise from the bed and into her fist, it's not what he really wants most, but at least it's something. She guides him to her, and at the moment he's about to feel the kind of pressure he really needs, exactly where he needs it, he says, "Wait a second."

She fears rejection, that is plain to see, but the very thought is, in every way, entirely ridiculous.

"The dress," he explains.

She grabs the bottom of it where it's gathered at her hips, and lifts it over her head before it drops beside them.

He groans, looking at her body before him, unable to find more eloquent ways to express his feelings about what he sees.

He reaches behind her, unhooking her bra and letting it fall forward, kissing the upper part of her breast that's first visible, and moving his mouth as more of her is exposed.

He aches through and through, so long cautiously hopeful, feeling turned on and desperate for her like it has been months or a year instead of minutes since they'd started this. (In some ways, it has been that long.)

If he has any dreams about a long, slow fuck, he's not sure he's up to that task. Fortunately that doesn't appear to be her intention either. She is on top of him, bringing him to her, allowing him into her welcoming body. This time, nothing stops them. Sliding slowly down his shaft, she pauses once she's taken him in completely. "Just a second," she whispers.

She feels snug and tight around him, and he lifts closer to her, kissing her jaw and neck as she tips her head to facilitate. He replies, "I'm not in a hurry."

"Liar," she smiles gently. She moves slowly at first, the sounds she seemed hesitant to allow before come more easily this time.

They are good together, as he's always thought they would be. She is not afraid of asserting her will, or opposed to allowing him to assert his. She's free and imaginative enough to have all of the right ideas, and fit enough to execute them. Buttoned-up Beckett _is_ a wild woman at all the right times.

"You feel good," she states openly, taking his hands and moving them to her hips where she wants them. "So good."

"Incredible," he replies.

There seems no point in holding off or finding ways to slow things down once she tells him she's close. And from those sounds and the way her movements have gone from sexy and kind of graceful, to jerky and fervent, he knows she is not exaggerating. He wants to come with her, to show her what he's known all along: this is exactly where they're supposed to end up.

Her breasts bobble as she bounces on his lap, and when she looks down at him, her eyes have that lustful, unfocused appearance. He lifts his head further, staring down at the way he pumps into her body. She notices, and shifts her position a bit, hands braced on his abdomen, and she makes sure he can see even better.

His focus returns to her face, noting the signs of arousal, the way she appears lost in this. A smile flashes before she leans closer and kisses him, a shared moment of affection at the center of this passionate engagement.

Her phone rings from somewhere out in her apartment. A smoke detector could go off beside his head, and he'd have no problem ignoring it, but it bothers her. With the second ring, she yells, "Dammit," from a place of extreme irritation rather than excitement, but she barely misses a beat physically, fucking him like there's no interruption at all.

There's probably a murder, or an emergency, or something horrible that requires her attention at this ridiculous hour. But she does not stop...perhaps because she's incapable.

She reaches between her legs, middle and index fingers immediately going to work on her clit. At the same time, she reaches behind her back, cupping his balls and gently massaging, her moans growing louder and more desperate, and his approaching orgasm goes from imminent to unavoidable.

The caller gives up, it seems.

He grabs her hips tighter, pulling her to him, helping to keep that rhythm perfect and unfaltering. He succeeds until their needs coil to the tightest point and let loose, the pair somehow managing to share this moment even though they're wholly unpracticed together.

She brushes the softest kiss to his lips, breathing against his mouth, still moaning when their bodies move together while they can. The phone begins to ring again as he tries to pull her closer, wanting to share a moment of gratitude and appreciation before he reminds her that they're really, really good together. He intends to tell her that, and to suggest that practice makes perfect, so things could only get better if they let them.

Before he can voice any of the things on his list, she pulls away from him completely, griping again with deep-seated frustration, "Dammit," and she hurries out to follow the ringing._ Yea, it's probably important, but who the hell cares?_

He looks down at his body where he still expects to find the woman who was there just a second ago. He can still hear her voice in the other room, and he's in her bed. He can practically still feel her. There's also the condom he has to dispose of. Clearly this wasn't an imagined occurrence.

Beckett comes back into the room, pushing a finger against her lips to demand his silence. "Yessir," she says, "Of course I understand, sir." There's a pause while she listens, and then she answers in a softer volume, "No, it's not a problem. I'll call Castle."

The call ends, and she throws her phone on the bed. She goes into the bathroom, returning not long after with eye drops, pausing her quick preparations to tip back her head and squeeze a few drops in to help mask the redness from a sleepless night filled with a party, alcohol, and sex.

She grabs her notepad and stands by the bed, writing down an address and saying, "There's a body—"

He interrupts, "—there aren't _any_ other detectives—"

"—second body in as many hours. And it sounds like one of ours. You up for it?"

He takes her hand and tries to bring her back to bed, insisting, "I'll be _up for it again_ even faster if you get back in bed."

"Up for a crime scene," she clarifies as she extricates herself from him, sexy orgasmic voice gone and replaced with the Detective voice again.

"Right."

"Don't worry about it. I'll make an excuse for you, tell them you had a late night at your party. I can fill you in later."

"I did have quite a late night. The hottest woman showed up at my party," he tries to flirt, but she's already back in work mode.

"I can handle this one—"

"I'll be there," he insists.

"I have to shower. I'll meet you there."

"I can come with you. We can share a cab."

Her eyes stare widely. "You want to arrive at a crime scene in the middle of the night, in the same cab, still wearing your costume?"

"I can see why you may think that's a tad suspicious," he allows.

He looks at the pieces of his clothing here, remembers the bits he still has in the kitchen and everything that happened there. He's pleased that, if this were a crime scene, evidence of her would be all over him (and vice versa), on his clothes, on his body, even in the way he looks at her.

She picks out her clothing from her closet while he ponders all of this, and he says, "Fine. I'll go home first, and I'll meet you at the scene."

"Good."

"I guess this is goodnight then?" he says when he locates his pants and puts them back on.

She drapes the sweater and dark blue jeans she intends to wear to the crime scene over a chair and approaches him. "I had fun," she says before she quickly kisses him.

"Fun?" he asks, feeling like that's insufficient to summarize what happened between them.

She pauses, wonderfully near, and asks, "You liked it?"

"Are you kidding? 'Like' cannot even begin to accurately describe my feelings about it," he compliments. "You said—"

Her phone rings again and interrupts. It's Ryan. Before she answers, she explains, "Me too. But I really have to go."

* * *

Castle is exhaustedly plotting how to make one night become two, but his thoughts are so foggy from lack of sleep that he can hardly remember how he takes his coffee, much less effectively scheme. (He doesn't have a problem remembering how Beckett takes hers.) But she invited him to come, so he's here.

He is not bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. The sun isn't even up yet, the scene artificially lit by lights the ME uses in dark situations.

When he is close enough, he hears Lanie explaining her preliminary findings in what feels like far too many words. He hands off Beckett's coffee to her, noting the way she looks at him and nods her thanks, taking a sip like everything is perfectly normal. She looks like she does at virtually every crime scene, not unrested or sleepy, and it makes him wonder how many times she's shown up at crime scenes without a moment's rest the night before.

He does enjoy the fact that even though she's showered and cleaned up, Kate is wearing the trench coat again, and he feels that's a little piece of lovely suggestivity she's using to remind him of the previous night (or maybe she didn't think when she grabbed the closest thing before heading out the door).

The boys disperse to canvass, and when they're gone, Lanie whispers harshly, "Don't try to play innocent with me," to Beckett.

"So what do you think that blue mark is on his sleeve?" Beckett asks her.

Castle notes the scratchiness in her voice that probably comes from screaming the night before.

"Don't change the subject. That will all be in the report. What _won't_ be in the report...is who you went home with last night," Lanie doggedly continues. "It's obvious."

"Beckett!" Castle says with high-pitched accusation.

"My guess is...she picked him up at your party."

"When I saw her walk out my door, she was alone," he says, sharing words that are technically true.

"Ask your mother if she saw something," Lanie, this time, gives the orders.

"I will," Castle agrees.

Lanie stares at him long and hard, assessing. "You look pretty worn out."

"Party just ended a few minutes before Beckett contacted me about the case."

"Right," Lanie says.

He looks toward Beckett, who is hunched over the body, making her own mental notes and looking consumed by the case and unconcerned by Lanie's accusations.

They find themselves back at the precinct after their investigation at the scene. He tries not to gawk or fall asleep while Beckett works on the murder board. When the evidence as she's gathered so far is arranged on the once empty white surface, he stands next to her to look it over.

"I called the club he was last seen at," she says, referring to the victim. "They use those black light stamps, not blue ink. So that must have come from somewhere else."

"Club hopping, maybe?" he asks.

"He was there since 10:30. Not much going on at clubs earlier than that."

"True."

"I can't even see straight. I need to get some sleep. You should, too."

"Yea, I know. I just—"

"I have to run down to see Lanie, she has something to show us. Then I'm heading home and going straight to bed."

He mulls over a _care for some company_ suggestion, but decides to hold off for now.

"Want to come?" she asks as they get in the elevator.

"Always up for a trip to the morgue."

"I wasn't talking about the morgue," she says casually as the elevator doors close.

He considers for a few seconds longer than he should need to. "You mean...your place?"

She smiles as she stares ahead. "I really will need to sleep at some point, though."

He's still a bit surprised, but subtly pumps his fist in a 'yes' celebration. Hopefully she doesn't see it.

"Thanks for your discretion today," she says softly. "For not bragging to the boys or telling Lanie."

"Not a problem. But how do you know I didn't tell the boys?" he asks, more out of curiosity than to suggest he did so.

"Please," she chuckles, "like they'd be able to play it cool if they knew. It would be obvious. Either they wouldn't try to hide it at all and they'd taunt and grin like idiots, or they'd try way too hard to act like everything's normal…which wouldn't seem normal at all."

The rest of the way to the ME's office, they talk about the case.

They finish Lanie's update, and right before they leave, she orders, "Freeze."

Beckett scowls at her for the demand, but Lanie argues, "You both think you're so smart, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?" Kate gripes. "I'm too tired for—"

"I know who you left with…." Then Lanie turns to Castle and says, "And I know why your _party _kept you up so late. Don't try to pull that crap over on me."

"You're imagining things," Beckett counters.

"Am I?" Lanie scoffs. She grabs a new pair of exam gloves and tweezers, walks behind Kate, and retrieves Castle's Poe mustache that is affixed to the back of Kate's coat.

He and Beckett talk over each other as they try to find an excuse that will stick.

Lanie adds, "And don't pretend you were hanging out, doing something boring and innocent. Nobody gets a hickey like that doing something innocent."

Kate gasps as her hand goes to her neck, and Castle whips around to check, and Lanie brags, "Busted. There's no hickey, but I will consider that your _confession_. I know what's going on here." Lanie virtually sing-songs, "Admit it."

Beckett shrugs, it's not a denial at all. Remembering certain realities, she says, "You can't say anything. If the boys find out—"

"Don't even worry," Lanie interrupts.

Beckett's phone rings yet again, and that requires her attention.

Lanie smiles at him, but there's a warning in her stare. He was positive she was in favor of the two pairing up, so he can't imagine what warning would be given. Through the sustained expression, she explains, "My girl over there has not had a decent 'date' in a long time. She's gonna eat you alive."

"What?" he chuckles, stopping abruptly when Lanie's look makes it clear she's not joking.

Behind him, Beckett ends her call and asks, "Castle, you coming or what?"

Only Lanie sees the grin that emerges across his face. As he turns to join Beckett, Lanie whispers, "Good luck."

**_The End_**


End file.
